


honeymoon

by MymbleHowl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 60s AU, F/M, Is everyone a bit dark?, Mods and Rockers, Pregnancy Kink, Smoking, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 09:56:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29607702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MymbleHowl/pseuds/MymbleHowl
Summary: Jeyne’s husband’s family are full of secrets, even so, she probably shouldn't spy on them.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 14
Kudos: 78





	honeymoon

**Author's Note:**

> This world was stuck in my head. 
> 
> Is anybody else interested in it? I love comments (Kudos is also really lovely if you like it, 🥰).
> 
> TW - all the tags? apart from maybe mods and rockers.

In spite of his new wife, his single day of honeymoon, Jeyne’s cousin-in-law (or is he her brother-in-law now?) is in Winterfell Working Men’s Club on Monday night. Jeyne supposes he feels a duty to be there as the union leader. Certainly that is how he spends the evening, having little grievances murmured into his ear. He doesn’t look how she imagines union leaders to look, with his Rocker’s leather jacket and his dark curls only half swept back. He looks like one of those boys from the newspaper who get in the brawls on the beaches down south. Maybe he doesn't look like a boy. Still, he looks like he’s about to get on his motorbike and go revving down the high-street looking for a sharp suited young man in a parka to punch.

The man on her left, the one with the easy grin that doesn’t meet his eyes, Theon, he’s sharp suited, he has the pointed boots of a bassist on _Top of the Pops._ Jeyne wonders if Jon has ever punched him just for the way he dresses, she wonders if he’s ever punched him for another reason. There is always this simmering in Robb’s family of something, just beneath the surface, a multitude of unsaid things. It makes Jeyne sigh and that’s when Jon meets her eyes.

He stands up and comes to their table. Theon and Robb are shouting now, even though their heads are close, over the jukebox and the smoke and the general hubbub. Jeyne has no idea what they have been saying.

Jon offers her a cigarette, lights it for her.

“You look like you’d like to go home,” he says.

Jeyne smiles at him, nods. But she will not get to go home. She will return to her mother-in-law’s house. Still it is only a week, Jeyne will smile and be nice and she will endure it all.

Jon bends to Robb, says something.

Robb turns to her, “Jon will take you home,” he says with that ebullient, raucous tone he has been using with Theon.

Jeyne nods, “I’ll just powder my nose first,” she says to Jon, gathers up her handbag and her coat and scoots past him.

When she comes back from the bathroom, Theon is at the bar, with the other bridesmaid, the other Jeyne. This Jeyne reaches out to her, stops her.

“What a pretty bag,” she is saying, taking hold of Jeyne’s ultramarine leather handbag (it’s not quite a Gucci Constance, but squint and you can pretend it comes from the pages of Vogue).

Jeyne nods, smiles, looks past her, Robb is standing, leaning into Jon, he isn’t ebullient and raucous now and when Jon whips his head to him, Jeyne is almost surprised there is not more, not a punch thrown or a shirt grabbed. But then it is subsided and Robb is beckoning her over, kissing her on the cheek and Jon gestures her out.

Their smalltalk turns to silence soon enough and Jeyne finds that easier than the tight-lipped persistence of her mother-in-law.

Jeyne is thinking as she walks that she had no clue about them, about Jon and her sister-in-law, not before the ivory invitation, torn and thrown away. Robb only agreed to come after a long phone-call from his mother. Jeyne thinks of all her own mother’s pronouncements; ‘they’re cousins? Well I suppose that’s how they do things up there,’ ‘only three weeks, well we know what that means,’ ‘in the Sept? I thought his family were Weirwood people.’ Jeyne and Robb’s wedding had been a quick registry office affair with a finger buffet afterwards, only his mother had come.

Is no clue right, Jeyne wonders.

* * *

On New Year’s Day, Jeyne went out into the ginnel, as Robb calls it, with the rubbish. Sansa was leaning against the wall, smoke whistled serenely from her mouth, Jon had been at her feet, he stood up as Jeyne opened the gate, scuffed his knuckle along his bottom lip, then frowned at her.

“Jon was just fixing my shoe,” Sansa had said, and she had waggled the shoe at her. Jeyne had wondered where the bright tights Sansa always wore were, the ones that always made her look like a long-legged model running across some fashionable road in a David Bailey photograph.

The gate clanged back behind Jeyne as she scurried away to the kitchen.

“You better get on with it,” she had heard Sansa say, as she sucked in on her cigarette, “if you want a turn.”

When Sansa had come back into the yard later, she had stopped in the pooled light of the kitchen window, taken out her compact, dragged her nail across the edges of her mouth, before reapplying her bright red lipstick. Jon had never come back in.

* * *

There is a light in Jeyne’s mother-in-law’s kitchen now. Sansa is sitting there alone, a candle glowing, with her honey coloured tights and her sleek red hair. She is flicking through a magazine, with her seat skew to the table and her bump more visible even than it was on Saturday, as she walked down the aisle in her white column dress. Jeyne had been in the front bedroom when the dress was put on, when her mother-in-law had issued a sharp ’Sansa,’ at seeing how the dress accentuated everything. Catelyn had claimed that she should have let it out and Sansa had replied, ‘I’m never going to be anyone’s secret again, mam,’ and smoothed the satin over her stomach indignantly.

“Where’s your mother?” Jon asks Sansa now.

“Sleeping off the whiskey cream and the disappointment,” Sansa replies.

“Why are you here?” His voice is low and rough almost, even though they are just married.

“I put Rickon to bed.”

Jon huffs at her with a little frown.

“He’s only eight and mam’d not wake up if anything were wrong.”

There is a look between them, another simmering unsaid thing that passes from husband to wife. Neither of them breaks from it so Jeyne sighs, yawns even.

“I’m going up, goodnight, thank you for walking me back Jon,” she says to them.

Sansa gives her a bright, quick smile and Jeyne darts out, walks quickly back down the hall, but for some reason she doesn’t climb the stairs, she stands there hesitant. After a minute she creeps back to the dining room, she can’t explain why she has done this. The serving hatch is slightly ajar, from this angle she can only see the bright light glaring from it. Jeyne slides along the back wall.

Now she can see that Jon is sitting in the chair, his head tipped back, his mouth open slightly.

“Really?’ He says, and there is the edge of a smile and the edge of a frown.

“It’ll be like old times,” she hears Sansa say, “it’ll be like the first time.”

“You said please back then,” he claims and he leans forward out out of Jeyne’s view.

“I was pretending to be a good girl then,” Sansa replies.

“And now?” It is a growl this question.

“I don’t need to pretend, I am a good girl now.”

“Really? Good girls throw their knickers on the floor of their mam’s kitchen?”

“Good girls please their husbands, good girls please themselves.”

She can hear the scrape of the formica table being pushed out the way and everything else; the fumble of their bodies, their whistled pleasure being swallowed into kisses. Jeyne should move. She doesn’t move.

Jeyne can see the back of his head now.

“This reminds me of the first time,” he is saying, “I’ve always wanted to get you like this. Mine. Ours.”

“Oh,” Sansa is saying, “I’m going to get so round and everyone will see.”

Jeyne still doesn’t move. He has leant back out of view and she can see Sansa instead. Jeyne closes her eyes but instead she sees her sister-in-law at the wedding, sitting on Jon as if he were a throne and she was a queen holding court.

“I’ll be so needy,” Sansa says.

“Hmm?” He grunts at his wife. Jeyne should leave, she stays stock still.

“So needy,” she is murmuring.

“Hmm? More needy?”

“It will only get worse,”

“Hmm?”

“Aunt Lysa used to say they should bind my hands,” Sansa gasps “I wished for you, I imagined you, you helping before they sent me away.”

“Don’t lie,” he growls.

“I’m not, I pretended it was your fingers, remember how you used to say feel better now?”

“Those fucking petticoats you used to wear and you used to plead ‘oh, Jon.’”

There is just the sound of her sister-in-law’s body and her brother-in-law’s body. Jeyne bites her lip, as if that will galvanise her, somehow, to leave.

“You’ll be more needy than that then?” He is asking gruffly.

“So needy you’ll come home for lunch and find me on all fours dripping for you.”

“Hmm?”

“So needy we’ll get caught.”

“Hmm?” He says, “who by?”

“Your foreman, the barmaid at the club, Smalljon.”

“You want Smalljon to catch you?” He asks, Jeyne can hear the amusement in his voice.

“I don’t care,” she breathes, “anyone,” and the word shudders.

“This is you being a good girl?” Jon says huskily.

Sansa doesn’t say anything, she hums, her breathing quavers.

“Are you coming for me, my needy, pretty, pregnant cousin?” He murmurs, Jeyne almost doesn’t hear him.

“Wife,” her sister-in-law manages to say.

Jeyne opens her eyes and watches how Sansa rocks full tilt, how she gasps and shimmers, Jon is still whispering things, until his face is buried in her shoulder and they are still. Jeyne slides herself down the wall of the dining room until she is sitting on the floor.

It is from there that she hears their whispered leaving with it’s little candle flame flicker of joy.

She goes to bed quietly.


End file.
